Nine Is Still Sleeping

“Nine,” she said.

Orrin said, “Sleeping.”

“If I knock it, water.”

“If you knock it, a surprise. Surprises here are not festivals.”

Pell-below gave the child the rag to fold again. Employment.

The rude pipe was a fat one with old municipal paint ghosted under honest paint. It ticked when it dreamed.

Kesh arrived on the walk, heard the argument, and did not become a lesson.

“Proof you’re clever is counting,” she said. “Proof you’re from here is letting nine sleep.”

The child frowned. Clever had been her whole job.

They did the polite knock instead. Seven, eight. Water, decent. Bottles. A heel of bread.

The child filled a bottle for a sleeper without being asked. That was a different clever.

When the current shrugged, lamps dipped. Someone swore. Someone else shushed. Borrowed quiet held by a thread.

The child stood until the polite pipe spoke.

She did not touch nine.

Pell-below said, “That’s rent.”

Orrin said, “That’s a person.”

Kesh marked nothing on a map.

Walking on, Nim said, “She’ll wake it someday.”

“Someday she’ll be the one telling a smaller child no,” Kesh said. “That’s the curriculum.”

Wash night ended. Rags hung. The list that was not a list gained a tick mark that meant the child had been decent.

Nine slept.

Glassmere, above, ran a last train on time, insulting someone on platform 4.

Below, no board.

Only pipes with jobs, and one job that was rest.